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Instantly she cried out in renewed hope: ‘Then you will take me back? Oh, master, take Ma Hla
May back! No one need ever know. I will stay here when that white woman comes, she will think I
am one of the servants’ wives. Will you not take me back?’
‘I cannot. It’s impossible,’ he said, turning away again.
She heard finality in his tone, and uttered a harsh, ugly cry. She bent forward again in a shiko,
beating her forehead against the floor. It was dreadful. And what was more dreadful than all, what
hurt him in his breast, was the utter gracelessness, the lowness of the emotion beneath these
entreaties. For in all this there was not a spark of love for him. If she wept and grovelled it was only
for the position she had once had as his mistress, the idle life, the rich clothes and dominion over
servants. There was something pitiful beyond words in that. Had she loved him he could have driven
her from his door with far less compunction. No sorrows are so bitter as those that are without a trace
of nobility. He bent down and picked her up in his arms.
‘Listen, Ma Hla May,’ he said; ‘I do not hate you, you have done me no evil. It is I who have
wronged you. But there is no help for it now. You must go home, and later I will send you money. If
you like you shall start a shop in the bazaar. You are young. This will not matter to you when you have
money and can find yourself a husband.’
‘I am ruined!’ she wailed again. ‘I shall kill myself. I shall jump off the jetty into the river. How
can I live after this disgrace?’
He was holding her in his arms, almost caressing her. She was clinging close to him, her face
hidden against his shirt, her body shaking with sobs. The scent of sandalwood floated into his
nostrils. Perhaps even now she thought that with her arms round him and her body against his she
could renew her power over him. He disentangled himself gently, and then, seeing that she did not fall
on her knees again, stood apart from her.
‘That is enough. You must go now. And look, I will give you the fifty rupees I promised you.’
He dragged his tin uniform case from under the bed and took out five ten-rupee notes. She stowed
them silently in the bosom of her ingyi. Her tears had ceased flowing quite suddenly. Without
speaking she went into the bathroom for a moment, and came out with her face washed to its natural
brown, and her hair and dress rearranged. She looked sullen, but not hysterical any longer.
‘For the last time, thakin: you will not take me back? That is your last word?’
‘Yes. I cannot help it.’
‘Then I am going, thakin.’
‘Very well. God go with you.’
Leaning against the wooden pillar of the veranda, he watched her walk down the path in the strong
sunlight. She walked very upright, with bitter offence in the carriage of her back and head. It was true
what she had said, he had robbed her of her youth. His knees were trembling uncontrollably. Ko S’la
came behind him, silent-footed. He gave a little deprecating cough to attract Flory’s attention.
‘What’s the matter now?’
‘The holy one’s breakfast is getting cold.’
‘I don’t want any breakfast. Get me something to drink–gin.’
Where is the life that late I led?